


Dream

by tarysande



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, Rare Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarysande/pseuds/tarysande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feynriel has the first dream shortly after joining the Dalish clan on Sundermount.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream

**Author's Note:**

> From the Dragon Age Drabbles Prompt Generator:  
> Feynriel/Saemus - letting go

Feynriel has the first dream shortly after joining the Dalish clan on Sundermount. At first he believes it is only a horrible version of his own nightmares. He recognizes the Wounded Coast, though he’s surprised to find himself outside and not deep within the slavers’ cave. He hates when he dreams of that cave. He’ll take the cloudy skies and wind-tossed waves any day, even though the clouds don’t quite move the way clouds ought, and the waves don’t quite make the sounds waves should.

He’s used to the peculiarities of the Fade. He hardly even _notices_ the Black City anymore.

In this dream, he is drawn by the sounds of battle, and though he knows he ought to run the other direction, ought to force himself to wake—he doesn’t want to get caught up in a battle in the Fade; demons love battles; he must always be wary—he doesn’t.

He recognizes Hawke, and even though he knows it is a dream and he knows he must be careful in dreams—Marethari tells him again and again and again how _careful_  he must be in dreams—he finds himself unable to look away, unable to wake. Hawke and her companions seem blurry, indistinct, the details all missing. Feynriel only knows who they are because he’s seen them before. As he watches, the last of the enemies—bandits? slavers? mercenaries?—is slain. When Feynriel blinks, Hawke is gone. 

Hawke is gone, but the Wounded Coast remains. The clouds move across the sky in all the wrong ways. The waves beat their uneven tempo against the rocks. And sitting in the sand next to the body of a dead grey giant is a young man. He is tearing at his clothing. Feynriel thinks the shirt must once have been very fine, but only rags remain now. Again and again the young man rakes his nails down his body, pulling at the ragged scraps of cloth and dashing them to the sand when they come away in his hands.

“Are you—?” Feynriel begins.

“Leave me alone,” the young man snaps, looking up at Feynriel with startling eyes. Instead of speaking, Feynriel finds himself wondering if those eyes are also some product of the Fade; he’s never seen anything like them.

“Leave me _alone_ ,” he repeats, a ferocious bite to his words, his turquoise— _yes, that’s the color,_ Feynriel thinks, _turquoise_ —eyes flashing with heat.

Feynriel takes a step backward, his feet skidding in the sand, and wakes, feeling like a voyeur, an interloper. It’s awful. He doesn’t sleep for days.

#

The second dream happens months later. Months and months. This time Feynriel hears no sounds of battle. He doesn’t see Hawke. But he recognizes the sand, the clouds, the waves. He recognizes the bodies strewn about in the sand. He recognizes the young man even before he lifts his turquoise eyes.

The young man still sits beside the kossith corpse, but he no longer tears at his clothes. The rags hang from his shoulders, but he seems indifferent to them.

“I dreamed you before,” the young man says without preamble, his eyes unblinking as they meet Feynriel’s.

Feynriel nods.

“I… dream this dream every night, over and over and over, but I only dreamed you once. I remembered you when I woke up. I remembered you as clearly as I remember him.” The turquoise eyes shift momentarily, glancing at the giant lying broken and still beside him.

Feynriel swallows, scuffing his foot in the sand. The grit puffs up around his toes, almost like real sand. It takes too long for the grains to fall, though, and they shift and sparkle as they do, not much like real sand at all. “Sometimes I end up in… sometimes I end up where I’m not supposed to be.”

The young man looks away from the dead kossith, twisting his hands together in his lap until his knuckles whiten. “I understand.”

Even though he can hear Marethari’s voice in his head warning him to wake— _“Be wary, Feynriel. Emotion calls to demons. And you are more susceptible than most.”_ —Feynriel steps forward. Not too close.

“Do you want me to leave?” Feynriel asks.

“Yes,” the young man says, without looking up. “And no.” Feynriel doesn’t move. “I’m so… I’m so _lonely_.”

Feynriel thinks of the alienage, where he was always the odd one out. He thinks of the clan. They see a shem when they look at him, no matter who his mother is. Feynriel says softly, “I understand.”

The young man’s name is Saemus. The qunari was his friend, Ashaad. Saemus smiles when he talks about him. Feynriel smiles in return, and answers Saemus’ questions about the Dalish, about the alienage. About magic. Things he’d never say outside of dreams.

Finally, Saemus stands, taking one of Feynriel’s hands in both of his. “Thank you,” he says.

Feynriel blinks. “What—whatever _for_?”

Saemus looks around, and Feynriel follows the turquoise gaze, seeing what Saemus sees. As they’ve sat talking, the mercenaries have disappeared. The sand is smooth, unstained by blood and untouched by battle. Even the sky seems less cloudy. Saemus’ clothing is whole again, mended as though it had never been torn. “For listening,” Saemus replies. “I don’t think I’ll dream this dream again.”

 _Oh_ , Feynriel thinks.

The corner of Saemus’ mouth twists, a little bittersweet. “I’m almost sad.”

Feynriel shakes his head, even though he is, too. “Don’t be. It’s better to… it’s better not to hold on. To emotion like this.”

 _In the Fade. Where emotions call demons._

Saemus raises his brows hopefully. “Perhaps we’ll meet again. In a happier dream?”

“Perhaps,” Feynriel agrees, thinking they won’t.

#

Years later, Feynriel dreams he’s on the Wounded Coast. The not-quite-right clouds skid across the not-quite-right sky. The sand beneath his feet sparkles in the light of a sun that doesn’t shine.

He’s so lonely.

“Feynriel,” says a familiar voice.

Feynriel turns, and for a moment the irises of those turquoise eyes almost seem slitted, _wrong_ , but then the moment passes, and it is like the clouds and the sky and the sand: just another peculiarity of the Fade.

“Dream with me,” Saemus hisses, grabbing Feynriel’s hand.

 _Be wary, Feynriel_.

But it is too late, too late, and Feynriel cannot wake himself from this dream.


End file.
